


Idyll of the King

by Ellipsical



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Domesticity, Feeeelings, Fluff, M/M, Sex, Slice of Life, Vague future fic (not a TGC compliant future)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-25 00:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12024264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellipsical/pseuds/Ellipsical
Summary: i·dyllnounan extremely happy, peaceful, or picturesque episode or scene, typically an idealized or unsustainable one.For AnneWriothesley and their truly excellent prompt:What does post mission look like in this relationship? Do they have habits when one agent comes home, or is this unique? Is it sweet? Hot? Desperate? Chill? Sad? How do they respond to each other now that they're back together?I hope I did it justice <3 <3Title taken from Tennyson's Arthurian epic poem,Idylls of the King.





	Idyll of the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnneWriothesley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneWriothesley/gifts).



“Queen’s Gate, Thomas, and quickly, please,” I say, settling into the bisque leather seat, grateful for the warm rush of air through the vents, pushing the cold spring day back against the windows and into the grey London afternoon brooding outside.

I stare out at the city passing by, feeling the familiar thrum settling beneath my skin, reverberating down into my bones to be absorbed by my marrow. The dying fizz of adrenaline dissipating into my blood stream with each deeply drawn breath. The return from a mission is always thus, a recalibrating, a turning off of one valve and the opening of another. It starts with the debrief and ends when the Kingsman cab pulls onto the cobbled lane of the Queen’s Gate Mews. I yawn, sinking deeper into the seat. My diplomatic responsibilities as Arthur had carried me abroad for some two weeks. I had passed the dateline three times in as many days and I was exhausted, ready to be home.

Home.

And never more so than now.

We have two nights and a day, nothing more, before Eggsy has to leave on assignment. Picking up where my efforts left off; he takes a flight out on Sunday morning.

Thankfully the traffic is lite on the A315 and before I know it we’re turning right at the Queen’s Arms pub.

As we approach the end of the street, the windows of the flat that Eggsy and I purchased together glow behind their shades, saffron limned in citron, cozy and warm.

The house will not be cold and damp from my absence, as it has been in decades past. I won’t need the hot water bottle tucked at my feet to drive away the chill, nor the extra blankets piled on top of my duvet. There is no longer only a glass of port drunk shivering over the radiator as it spits and steams and splutters beside me, nor paltry cheese on toast for my tea.

I shut the door behind me and hang my coat in the closet, taking the staircase by twos, luxuriating in the heat, almost tropical, that Eggsy insists on keeping the thermostat set to until May gives way to June and London is briefly graced by the sun.

Here he is, on the sitting room rug, hands spread out on paper towels as Daisy crouches over them, brush in hand, swiping carefully at his nails with the tip of her tongue trapped endearingly in the corner of her mouth.

He tips his head back, smiling, to receive my kiss, his lips parting for my tongue. His cheeks slide smoothly beneath my hands, his hair still wet and tacky against my throat. Freshly showered, clean shaven, soft, and smelling divine, of his aftershave and soap, with the lingering taste of mint on his tongue.

“Hi,” he says, breathless and flushed, when I give him leave of his mouth once more.

“Hello,” I say, settling down behind him on the rug, crowding in close to tuck my chin over his shoulder, careful not to jostle him too much. “Hello, Miss. Daisy. That’s quite the fetching colour you’re using on our Eggsy there.”

“He wanted blue, but I haven’t any,” Daisy says, not looking up from her careful work. Her head of flaxen curls is bent over Eggsy’s hands. She has a birthday coming up, her fifth, I think, making a note to take her shopping for something suitably extravagant tomorrow to celebrate.

“Well, I would argue that blood is a much more fitting choice anyway,” I murmur, nuzzling at the velvety soft skin of Eggsy’s throat.

“Harry,” he says warningly and I sigh, retreating.

“What’s on for this evening then?” I enquire, mentally going through my calendar to try and remember how long Daisy will be with us. _Michelle— interview in Dublin, through Saturday._ Until tomorrow afternoon then.

“Dunno,” Eggsy says, leaning back into me, the lovely heat of him seeping through the layers of my suit. My cock perks up as he pushes his arse into the cup of my thighs and I close my eyes, stalwartly ignoring the fleeting desire to distract Daisy with her iPad and ferry him upstairs for a quick, glorious reunion fuck in our bed. It’s not made any easier by the fact that he turns his head to say, low and rough, “Thought we’d wait for you to get home first.”

“Pizza!” Daisy exclaims, finishing the pinky finger on Eggsy’s left hand with a flourish and grinning toothlessly at us in triumph.

“Pizza it is,” I agree, pushing up laboriously onto my knees to hold my hand out to her. “Would you like to help me place the order?”

“Pineapple!” She says, entirely serious, and Eggsy laughs at the look on my face, crestfallen and mildly horrified, no doubt.

She wraps her tiny arms around my neck, her breath, sweet from biscuits and orange juice, brushing against my cheek, as I swing her up onto my back. With a grunt and a helping hand from Eggsy, I stand.

“Now, Daisy, my dear, are you absolutely sure that you…”

“Yes,” she says, certain.

“You know I’m not even sure Franco’s will put pineapple on a pizza, but we can certainly try.”

Eggsy has followed us into the kitchen, waving his hands in the air to dry the polish, and opens one of the cupboards to reveal a can of diced pineapple. I roll my eyes up to the ceiling in a silent prayer of thanks and fish my phone out of my pocket. JB clatters in on Eggsy’s heels, nails clacking against the tile, and he jumps up onto my left leg, tongue lolling in greeting. “Yes, hello there, nice to see you too,” I say, as the call rings through, and Daisy squirms, her knees digging painfully into my sides.

“Let’s leave Harry be, shall we?” Eggsy, seeing the look on my face, says, reaching out to take both girl and pug back into the sitting room so I can place the order in peace.

“She’s ok,” I say, shaking my head at him, even as Daisy is pushing sticky fingers beneath my shirt collar and hooking her heels into my hips. I shift her higher, relieving the pressure on my wind pipe, and draw Eggsy into me with the other arm, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. There’s a smear of jam on the counter, a congealing pan of beans on the hob, and someone has left out a pint of orange juice to go bad. JB has somehow managed to spill his food everywhere but in his bloody bowl and it’s all a mad reeling chaos of trainers and clothes and cereal bowls, nail polish and barbies and flat billed hats in the sitting room, and I should be exasperated by all of it, but somehow I can’t find it in myself to begrudge them their small comforts. All I can feel is grateful. Grateful for their messes, their bickering, their noise, their warmth. The way they fill my home with light and giggles and crumbs and smudged fingerprints and love. The way they treat it as their home, because it is.

After you’ve come back from the dead, the inconveniences seem inconsequential, what matters, magnified. They are my family. With them I can take off the Kingsman glasses which hide my scar from the public. The first time Daisy saw it she ran her fingertips over the fused lids, the empty socket, fingertips light on the scar tissue surrounding it like a blast site. In the frank manner of children, she’d asked what had happened to my eye and when I told her that I had gotten hurt, she commiserated by showing me two fresh scrapes on her knees, then promptly asked to borrow my eye patch to play pirates.

How lucky I am. To be here with them. To have come back from another mission intact. Nothing is promised and I take nothing for granted. So I gather them close.

While I can.

 

  
**********

 

  
Later there is pizza and a manicure for me (in day-glow pink) as we watch Frozen for the umpteenth time. Once the movie is over Eggsy carries Daisy off to bed and I sit down on the sofa with a finger of scotch, my spectacles, and the pile of post that has built up over my time away. JB settles himself behind my head, balancing on the top of the cushion as is his wont, and is soon whuffling softly in my ear.

I wake to the sensation of the letters slipping out of my grip and then Eggsy is gently tugging my glasses down and off and he’s sliding into my lap, dislodging a sleepy, disgruntled JB as he wraps his arms around my neck.

“Thanks for taking such good care of my girl,” he whispers, his lips pushing, supple soft, against mine.

I nod, the tips of our noses brushing lightly, and pull him in tighter against me, kissing him deeper, to taste the tang of tomato sauce on his tongue. I cup his shoulders in my hands, smooth them down the back of his vest, to pull at the hem, up and over his head, baring him to my mouth, my touch. I nuzzle my nose into all his soft, fragrant nooks and crannies, reacquainting myself, tasting him, salt and soap, and Eggsy moans quietly, threading his fingers into my hair. He rocks us together, grinding his erection into my stomach, a hard, hot brand through his sweatpants and I reach between us to wrap my hand around it. Time moves at a treacly pace, my blood thick in my veins, my heart pounding slow and heavy in my chest. Exhaustion tugs at my boundaries, diffusing them, until I’m porous, borderless, melted.

"We don't have to," he whispers.

I shush him soundly and Eggsy stands and strips his trousers off, straddles me naked, kissing me wet, all tongue, restless and whining prettily as I stroke him off.

“Yeah, yeah, Harry, oh, fuck. Please. Harry, please, oh, oh…”

His cock curves up, his foreskin fully retracted, silky soft against my palm, the crown wet and red and plump beneath my thumb.

I slouch, sliding down the leather seat until he is kneeling over me, the tip of his cock hovering just in front of my mouth. I part my lips and breathe out, letting the warm air play over the head, the crimson slit, the bulging vein.

He gasps and shivers. Shivering. Gasping. “Shit. Shit. Fuck.”

Eggsy takes a hold of his prick and draws a slick, salty line across my lips. His other hand is still anchored in my hair, fisting gently.

“Lick,” he says, bossy and hoarse, his voice cracked with longing.

He says lick, so I do. Flicking the tip of my tongue against his frenulum, broad swipes up the underside of his cock, from his bollocks to the top and then back down, lapping at the rosy head, tasting bitter musk, letting him rut against the flat of my tongue. Eggsy slowly wanks himself, looking down at me with his mouth open, breathing fast, his abdomen tensed, his thick thighs rock hard under my hands.

“Suck,” he whispers, so I do.

I suck.

I take the warm, heavy weight of him in my mouth. He stretches above me, whiskeyed by the light, amber and bronze. He moves and I set my hands to the creamy soft skin of his hips, let them rock in my palms. I drag them down his thighs to feel the tight little coils spring up against my fingertips. He trembles. Leaking on my tongue. He tastes milk sharp and salty. I drink him down.

I let him set the rhythm. Let him pull out and paint my mouth, let him sink inside until my eyes water, his hand clenching, tugging on my hair, helpless moans spilling from his throat.

I love him like this. Wanton, utterly lost in sensation, taking what he wants, what he needs. I cup his arse, the downy blonde hairs, fine as cornsilk, brushing against my palms, and I urge him to move. To push inside and roll his hips.

“Harry, Harry,” he pants, watching through heavy lidded eyes where he is fucking the tight wet circle of my mouth. He reaches down and cups his bollocks, which have drawn up tight against his body.

“Swallow, Harry. Harry, love, swallow,” he commands, pressing deep.

I do as he bids and he comes, flooding my mouth, my throat.

I collect him into my arms after. He licks at my mouth, at the lingering taste of his come, sucks on my bruised lips, kisses me sweetly. As he does everything sweetly.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. So sweetly. My sweet, dear boy. “I missed you.”

“I’m here now,” I soothe, as he clutches at me. “I’m home, Eggsy. I’m home.”

He tucks his face into my open collar and breathes against my collarbone, shuddering slightly as I stroke his back, his pulse in his temple, throbbing against my lips.

 

  
**********

 

  
The next morning I coax him awake with kisses, wrapping him up in my legs, my arms, as he squirms and whinges about the early hour. My cock is hard against his hip and I push into him, awake in a way I wasn’t last night.

“Well, hello there, what’s this?” Eggsy teases, running a loose fist down my length. His eyes glint mischievously at me from beneath sleep-clumped lashes. Chips of sea glass shining in the soft dawn light.

I bite at his lips and move to roll him beneath me, when, from the doorway, comes: “Eggsy?”

We both jump and I groan inwardly, burying my face in Eggsy’s pillow as he sits up to greet his sister.

Eggsy makes pancakes and I try not to press him up against the fridge, the counter, the island, the hob. It’s really rather difficult, considering he’s dressed in nothing but a pair of pyjama trousers that are slung antagonizingly low on his hips. I move around him, making coffee, pouring juice, making time of course, to kiss his freckled shoulders, to suck on his neck until there is a red brand in the shape of my mouth left behind to burn against the thin, pale skin of his throat, to steal a grope every now and then. I delight in the way he blushes, pink blooming across his skin, and the way his eyes grow dark and darker, so that when he sets down our plates on the table he’s half hard. The condition is entirely mutual, I’m afraid. We call in Daisy who abandons her cartoons to bolt down three pancakes. By the time she is wheeling out again the tips of her hair are dipped in syrup and the corners of her mouth shine.

Once she has exited the room I wrap my ankle around Eggsy’s chair and drag him closer.

“Har-ry,” he says, exasperated, but pleased, swinging his feet up and into my lap, and looping his arms around my neck so that I can kiss him properly. He laughs and his lips bump against mine, pulling smooth in a smile. My god, I love him.

“We can’t,” he says, unconvincingly stern.

“I know,” I say, running the tip of my nose over his cheek and down into his hair. I want to pull him into my lap, let him ride me until we’re both sticky with sugar and come. I snog him instead. Slow. Savoring the feel of it. The candied sweetness of his tongue. The hushed sounds of pleasure he makes. Imprinting them in my mind for later, when he will be far from my arms.

Eventually we settle down to our coffee and the paper. He stays close, scrolling and thumbing away on his phone, and keeps his feet in my lap. I rub them absently as I read. The morning unravels in this way. The light growing steadily brighter outside the windows, the pillow creases growing fainter and fainter on his cheek, the sound of childish jingles playing in the background.

 

  
**********

 

That afternoon we go shopping. There is lunch at the pub and a stroll through Hyde Park to feed the swans that float on the Serpentine, followed by a short Tube ride to Mayfair and the Disney Store where I do not deny Daisy any whim. One only turns five once, after all. The cab ride home is full of excited chatter and by the time we return the jet lag is making me groggy so I beg off a fashion show and go upstairs to kip in our bed.

I wake in the late afternoon to a blissfully quiet house. I adore Daisy, I do, but I cannot say that I do not appreciate the quiet that follows in her wake. I pad down the stairs and follow the sound of a women’s voice naming off yogic positions in a low, dulcet murmur.

I find Eggsy standing on a purple mat in front of the French doors that open out onto the patio, doing something the woman describes as warrior one.

Cold spring light spills over him, sculpts him from buttery ivory, translucent, tinged in gold. The lines of his muscles are etched in charcoal shadows as he moves through the flow of poses sinuously. His balance is perfect; he never falters. He has a gymnast’s command over his body, he moves with purpose and poise. I watch him for a few moments from the doorway, admiring his form, his skill, the sheer power of his body, and then move to lie down next to him on the rug.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” I ask, amused and slightly confounded by this choice of activity, when he glances over at me from underneath his arm while contorted into downward dog.

“Roxy took me with her to class while you were away,” he says, moving down into a plank position, something the woman, speaking from Eggsy’s phone, which lies on the floor in front of him with a depiction of the pose lit up on the screen, calls, Chaturanga Dandasana. “I was bored and climbing the walls. She says I need to learn how to calm down. Be more mindful and some such other shite, I dunno.”

“Roxanne is a wise woman,” I say, biting my lip to keep from smirking. Eggsy catches me at it anyway as he’s pushing back up into downward dog, and he rolls his eyes. His biceps are huge, round and hard. I scoot closer, until I’m pressed up against his forearm, flexed and roped with tendons. I brush my lips over the white gold hairs. He lifts it so that I can shift underneath him. “Are you feeling sufficiently calm? I’m afraid I’m rather desperately in need of your company, my dear,” I say, as he hovers over me.

He lowers himself slowly onto all fours.

It is so quiet in the flat that I can hear the sough of his breath. He smells of tea and musk. His eyes trace softly over my face. Hunger simmers, latent and warm, beneath the green. My mouth, it drains. I lick my lips. All of me parched.

“Take off your shirt.”

I wriggle. I writhe. The mat sticks to my shoulders. It’s awkward, but I manage. Soon my vest is lost somewhere over my head and Eggsy is skating his eyes over my chest, my stomach. I lie still, let him look.

Another side effect of reincarnation is acceptance. This is my body. It has lived 57 years. It bears witness to this fact. I am scarred. I am wrinkled. I am blanching, I am loosening, I am spotting. I am marked irrevocably by the years.

And yet Eggsy looks at me as if I am the best thing he has ever seen.

He bends and kisses the folds that have started gathering beneath my chin. Scrapes his teeth over my collarbones, sucks on my nipples. He rakes jagged, bitten nails through the grey hairs on my chest, trails them down the soft wide plane of my belly. Rubies against my pale skin. His touches send shrill frissons sluicing through me. I shiver. I burn.

The button on my trousers slips through it’s hole with a whispered hush. The zipper parts with a buzzing grate.

His hand slips inside the fly.

I dig my fingers into the mat as he trails his fingers down my length.

I tremble.

He kisses my pleated forehead, tastes my sleep sour breath as I pant into his mouth. I can see the peach hairs fizzing on the curve of his cheek, the tender pink bow of his upper lip, his eyes, a burning field of grass.

And then I am slipped into the cool air and the heat of his palm is a shock and a wonder and I arch into it, breathing fast. My heart, humming, thrumming in my throat.

I am hard, I am wet.

I _want_.

He touches me so gently, I almost beg for his fist. My heart is racing.

We live with death perpetually hovering. Will it be now? Now? Now?

It lends an urgency to our time together. Especially when it is as circumscribed as this.

I want to throttle Merlin for his damned schedule, but I can't because there's no one to blame but myself. Heavy is the head and all that tosh. The scant few hours left to us are ticking by; they stream through my fingers. Lost. It's making me sentimental, as it always does. Desperate, sappy, clingy. It makes me catalogue him. Here is the freckle on his ear lobe, here, the stubborn cowlick behind his left ear that never seems to lay entirely flat. Here is the scar from the knife wound he received in Rio, here, the knob in his pinky where he broke his bone when he was three. Here is the sound he makes when I kiss him, here, the callous on the heel of his palm...

Here, and here, and here...

I want so badly to keep him. To go with him. To be his armor, his shield.

Even as my body is flooded by desire, my mind splinters, thoughts racing in all directions.

I want his kiss. His heart. His body.

I fear, so much, the loss of him.

"Harry," he says, pulling far enough away to meet my eye.

"What?"

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"You gotta stop thinking so much."

My chest constricts and I look away, blood stinging my cheeks. It's humiliating. To be so obvious, so transparent. And yet if I'm being honest it grows harder with each mission. More untenable by the day. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it, to be honest. I would never dream of asking Eggsy to stop being a Kingsman, but I am becoming thoroughly exhausted with it being by my own hand that he was sent into peril. It is like a thorn catching on my heart; slow exsanguination by pinprick, each time I send him from England's shores. 

"We've been over this," he says gently, as if reading my mind. 

"Yes, I'm aware," I snap, unfairly churlish. Embarrassed. Afraid.

He smoothes my fringe back from my forehead and waits until I look at him again. "Hey." The tenderness there makes my heart untwist. "I'm your eyes now. Your hands. When you send me out in the field I'm your soldier, yeah?" He tips my chin down so I can't hide. "Do you trust me?"

“Of course,” I whisper, shocked that this could be in doubt. "Of course I do. How can you think...?"

"You're always saying how nothing's promised to men like us, right?"

I nod.

"I don't want to waste our last night together. Do you?"

"No. Eggsy, I..."

He kisses me quiet. “Shh, love, I’ve got you.”

He slides down and pushes my trousers and pants down my thighs. They tangle around my ankles; I scrape them off with my heels. He settles between my legs, thumbs rubbing at my hips, and runs the tip of his nose down the ill-defined ridge of my iliac crest. He presses kisses to my cock, buries his face in the brown and silver curls below, nuzzles my bollocks. Licks his way back up.

My hands float down. One aimlessly stroking his shoulder, one threaded into the dark, copper-struck strands of his hair.

I want my cock in the hot silken clutch of his mouth. I want, I want, I want.

His name is a prayer for mercy tumbling from my mouth.

He sucks on my plummy head like a lolly, flirting at me coquettishly through his lashes. He slides down, fits me against the back of his throat, and all my blood rushes toward him in a roaring surge, rising up to meet him. Hot drumming beats against his tongue.

I want deeper. Faster. Harder. More and more and more again.

“Eggsy,” I say, “Turn around. I want you, _ah_ ,” I gasp as he does something particularly clever with his tongue. He grins up at me. Cheeky nymph. “I want you in my mouth.”

“Fuck yes.”

He strips with efficiency, track shorts left in a puddle next to my left hip, and then he is clambering over me, careful with his knees.

I wrap my hand around him, give him a few strokes as he bends back down. His eyes flutter shut and the breath leaves him in a rush. He smells like a sun-warm sea and tastes like lemon rind on my tongue, brightly bitter.

And then, _then_ , I am inside him and he is inside me at once and it’s perfect.

A circuit closed and alive with current.

Overwhelmed, I break free to draw deep draughts of chilled air, crisp and dry as white wine, into my lungs. His mouth is a tight wet channel and I am drowning in the sensation. I thrust up involuntarily and he chokes, pulls off, mouth dripping onto my stomach as he coughs. We both breathe heavily. 

His cock bobs, glossy and red, heavy and thick, between us as he pulls me back inside.

I pet his thighs and over the globes of his arse, the pink on my nails garish against his white skin.

I slap his cheeks lightly, watching in appreciation as they jiggle and pink up. I do it again and again, following each spank with a hard squeeze.

"Fuck, Harry, stop teasin'," he begs, his voice a husky rasp, cock-scraped and rough.

"Your arse is glorious, you must know this," I say in rapturous adulation. "It's utter perfection. I missed it terribly." Eggsy moans and licks my prick, sloppy and wet, before slipping me once more inside the slick warmth of his mouth. An ache knots itself in my navel and my knees fall open, spreading wider. I lean forward and sink my teeth into the soft flesh of his cheeks. I nibble my way around, sucking wet kisses to each bite mark, until he's blushing from tailbone to nape, and squirming restlessly between my hands.  

I part him.

He whines around my cock.

I tug him down.

From the sound that he makes and the way he pushes up, pushes back, rocking himself onto my mouth, he likes this change very much.

He rolls his hips and I glide up between his cheeks. “Yeah, fuck yeah. Eat me out. ‘M gonna ride your face, fuck, Harry, yes.”

I pry him open and fuck my tongue just inside his rim, feeling him clench around me, startled. His cock leaks on my chest. The smell of him makes my mouth water. I push it out and into him.

He sits up and bows his back, sinking himself onto the sharp, slick tip, with a long, low moan.

He rises above me, the smooth graceful line of his spine leading me up to the vee of his nape. He’s hewn from stone, his muscles standing out in sharp relief, and flecked in black specks. His hair is brassy and dark and wildly disarranged in the low light. I want to muss it further, want him blissed out and drugged on orgasm. I want him to leave England with the ghost of my touch lingering on his skin, I want him branded with the whorls of my fingerprints, want him haunted by the feeling of my tongue licking him open for my cock.

I want him to come back to me so that I can do it again.

Maybe, maybe, my touch is a spell I can weave to keep him safe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. If, if, if.

The futility of it makes me grip his hips hard, grind him down, and Eggsy answers by returning his lips to my cock.

Once he is relaxed, his body loosening around me, I push two fingers inside him.

He pops off, drooling, shouting, “Fucking hell!”

Growling, shoving back, warning, “‘m gonna come, Harry—“

I bend them, following the slippery hot satin of his body arching downwards, and I rub.

I lick.

I rub.

I suck.

And when I slip my fist around his prick he comes for me with a broken, shaken moan.

I ease him down, turn him, support him, so that he can collapse on top of me, sweaty and spent. His thighs straddle my stomach, his face buried in my neck. I run my fingers lightly down the arc of his back, rolling over the delicate knobs of his vertebrae.

I slide lower, down the wet crevice, to where he is swollen and soft and tender.

He makes a small noise of surprise and I stroke back up.

And then, back down.

I love him, I cannot help it. God knows I tried.

I want him.

Just him.

"You want to fetch us a condom?" I ask, breathing the words into his ear.

"No," he says, lips bumbling against my throat. He tips his head back to meet my gaze. His eyes are languid green lakes. Dreamy soft. He shakes his head. "Nah, I don' want to fetch a condom." He traces my cheek with the tip of his finger. "I want to be able to feel you tomorrow." His voice is so deep it rumbles through me, making the ache inside me throb with every word. "Every time I sit down, I want to think of your cock." His thumb sweeping over my bottom lip, wet. "I want you to fuck me so good, Harry. So good, I'll feel it all day. Want your big, hard cock. Want it _bare_. Want your come in me. God, Harry, I want it so bad. Fuck me, Harry, fuck me, please." Babbling, beautiful, he's mad, absolutely nattering, but I don't stop him.

He pushes up my chest, folds himself in half, and kisses me. Holds my face in the cup of one hand and kisses me, kisses me, kisses me, as he takes me inside him with the other. Uses his come to slick me. He shivers and gasps, oversensitive, overwrought. He rocks himself through it, his cock slowly filling against my stomach.

He moans, raw and plaintive, "Yeah, yeah, give me that good dick, fuck, fuck. _Fuck_." He presses his mouth to mine, silencing his filthy litany. I taste his tongue and the salt on his skin. I press my hands to his ribs, his waist, the sway of his hips. His skin blushes to scarlet beneath them.

He rocks in my lap, swivelling his hips, stirring my cock inside him. It's indescribable. Exquisite. 

"You're gorgeous," I say, touching the ridges of his stomach, brushing his nipples with my thumbs, as he leans back and rolls sensuously back and forth. I watch him grow harder and take him in my hand, feel him stiffen, his pulse thudding against my palm. 

When I can't take it any longer, can't bear the distance between us, I sit up and gather him close. Kiss him as he ruts against me, his thighs lifting and lowering him, fucking himself on my cock. His fingers dig into my shoulders and he’s mumbling, incoherent, “Come for me, Harry. Harry, babe, come for me.”

With his tongue slipped between my lips I feel my orgasm gather hot and glowing at the tops of my thighs. It breaks through me in obliterating waves of heat and I hold him, pushing him down, shoving deep, as I fill him.

Eggsy follows me a moment later, rubbing off against my belly, and I kiss him through it, collecting his moans and feeding them back to him. I stroke the sweat damp tips of his hair, our foreheads pressed together. We breathe the same breath, our hearts beating in staccato concert. A slow, sweet percussion.

  
**********

  
We shower and dress. Go out for steaming bowls of ramen. Him, the tonkotsu and I, the tantanmen. We switch halfway through. I am content to just watch him. I love the way he grows animated when he talks, the charming flash of his dimples, the lovely, brash sound of his laugh, the inelegant way he grips the chopsticks and shovels noodles into his mouth. The way he does everything in his life: full force, no holds barred. I love the attentive way he listens when I offer a quiet word here and there. I love the way his eyes are open books, shining with his adoration, his affection plain as day. I love the way he rests his leg against mine beneath the table, the way he plays with my fingers on the table top, fiddling with my signet ring, stroking my palm. Our nail polish gleaming, glossy and bright, in the low light of the restaurant. After, there is mochi and heavenly cool kisses that taste of mango and green tea. We walk home beneath a misty London rainstorm.

We brush our teeth, leaning against each other at the sink. The smell of the rain still clings to us, sweetly resinous and sharp as stone.

Eggsy curls up behind me in our bed. We sleep with the rain a gentle patter against the panes, and when he wakes me before dawn I do not say any of the myriad things I want to say.

I do not say: _Come back to me_.

I do not say: _Be safe_.

These are promises a Kingsman agent cannot make and faithfully keep. And besides all that, I do trust him. With everything.

Instead, I tell him what is true:

That I love him.

That I will be with him every step of the way.

And I kiss him.

I kiss him.

While I can.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading.


End file.
